


Every Time I Look At You

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Honeymoon, Intimacy, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years later, Hannibal finally finds the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Time I Look At You

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of two things: the five minute drabble challenge, [in which I wrote about Hannibal proposing to Will](http://celestialparadigm.tumblr.com/post/133041649305/take-five-minutes-and-five-minutes-only-to-write-a), and [Il Divo's _Every Time I Look at You_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11wvxBLlJ3I).

They do it all backwards since day one.

First was the courting, followed by the breakup, the longing period, the consummation, and honeymoon. Which, technically, they’re still in the middle of, and Will has a very serious feeling that this period in particular might outlast their natural lives.

And who said he wasn’t romantic?

When he wakes up that morning to an empty bed, he stays on his back and stares at the elaborate ceiling painting. The windows leading to the balcony are open, the humid Tuscan breeze making the sheer white curtains dance. Will now gets why Hannibal had those installed all across their villa. It makes their sprawling home a touch more dramatic, as if the antique sculptures and renown painting aren’t enough.

Will closes his eyes and breathes in deep, briefly mourning that, unlike their previous abodes all over the world, the kitchen isn’t within smelling range. If Hannibal is crafting away, there’s no way for him to know. He probably is, at the moment, considering it’s almost five in the afternoon.

Shifting on the bed, Will groans. He’s still sore all over, bites fresh along his clavicles, suckmarks dark against his chest and stomach. Well rested, he still feels too mellowed out to move, but his stomach demands food.

With another groan, he manages to sit up and reach for the ridiculous pajama pants Hannibal had gotten for him. They’re soft and white, long enough to drag along the wooden floor, and _almost_ as sheer as the curtains. No shirt to go with it. Hannibal insisted on it because, according to very embarrassing confessions whispered hotly against his ear, Will looked like a rugged prince drowning in decadence.

Will daringly asked if that made Hannibal his servant. His only answer was to fuck him into the mattress with the pants around his knees.

“I thought we agreed to staying in bed today,” Will says when he walks into the kitchen, Hannibal’s back to him as he prepares something relatively quick. “Your husband has needs, you know.”

“This is me seeing to at least one of them,” Hannibal quips with a soft smile. “You should have stayed tucked in.”

“Bed got cold.”

“It’s eighty degrees, Will.”

Standing behind him, hands to Hannibal’s hips, Will rests the side of his face between his shoulderblades. “You know I like it when we get sweaty. We could also turn on the air conditioning.” He presses a kiss there, and feels Hannibal shift under the affection. “Why are all the windows and doors open?”

“Letting in the fresh air.”

“Kind of overkill, if you ask me.” Impractical, which means there’s an ulterior motive. “Want to see me walk through billowing curtains with the Italian sunlight pouring over me like a teenager’s wet dream?”

“A glorious vision.”

“More like a cheap porno.” Will grins against Hannibal’s neck. “Honestly, you could have just recorded me this morning, if that's what you’re aiming for.”

Once he’s done arranging pastries on a tray, Hannibal turns around in Will’s arms. Hannibal’s knuckles drag down the faded scar on his cheek, now covered by a thick beard he would have shaved long ago if not for the insistence that it felt good against the inside of his thighs.

“Recordings are unnecessary when I’ve got the real thing at arm’s reach.” Hannibal bends to kiss him, suckling on his bottom lip. “Permanently.”

Will closes his eyes, leaning up to press their foreheads together. Permanent, in every sense of the word. “Four years,” he mutters, reminding Hannibal of the cause of their agreement. “We’re still here.” Will’s hand clutches at the back of his shirt. “Together.”

“That surprises you.”

“You’re not surprised?”

Hannibal thinks about it, ghosting his lips along the bridge of Will’s nose, a hand carding back unruly hair. “I would have been, were this our past life.” 

The grip on his hip tightens and Will sighs, aware that the memory of the Atlantic must still be as vivid as the night it happened within the walls of Hannibal’s palace. It’s not a pleasant one, for either of them, the following weeks having been the equivalent of an inferno, neither sure whether or not they would survive their wounds.

But they did survive, and the ran. Nothing left behind because their lives kickstarted again. New beings intrinsically bound to one another, one single entity forged in fire and purified by water.

Mexico City, Santiago, Paris, Casablanca, Mykonos, Copenhagen, and Kyoto. For two years they didn’t stand still, erasing leads until they were dead and buried, never to be heard from again by any in the States. Now, here they are, in a not-quite-tiny villa in the Tuscan countryside.

“Stay with me, Hannibal.”

“Where else would I go?”

They kiss softly, gently, as if either could disintegrate under the other’s lips. “To bed, probably,” Will says.

“You would come with me.”

“I would. I’d undress you, touch you all over, make love to you.”

Hannibal hums, pleased to hear it. “A small technicality: you’re still not my husband.”

Will laughs, bumping his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder. “Fine, fiancé. Although, another small technicality, we can’t officially get married. I think it’s high time I start calling you my husband.”

Arms tightly around Will, Hannibal presses his mouth to his cheek. Not for a kiss, but contact. Sometimes he acts like a lovestruck old fool, and by sometimes, Will means all of the time. It’s endearing, and Will echoes the affections more often than not.

“Would you be opposed to a ceremony?” Hannibal asks after a long moment of just holding each other.

“Is that what you’ve been planning?”

“I’ve been giving it some thought.” He shifts between the countertop and the solid press of Will’s body, the silk of his robe nicely sliding along his bare chest. “You would prefer a private affair.”

“We don’t have much in the form of friends to begin with.”

Sneaking a triangular shaped pastry from the tray, Will pops it into his mouth. He tries to do so discreetly, but he hadn’t counted on the powdered sugar that’s now sprinkle over Hannibal’s shoulder. The pastry’s delicious, and Will wonders where Hannibal got the guava from. The thievery earns him a disapproving pout.

A decanter stands on the other end of the counter, but he’s too comfortable to move out of Hannibal’s embrace.

“And though you would be fine with sharing this with our acquaintances…”

Will nods. “Everything we’ve ever done has been between the two of us.” He pats off the sugar with a thoughtful smile. “Have you gotten a priest?”

“Do we need one?”

“Well, if we can’t get a legal licence, I thought you might want to do at least one thing traditionally.” Not that they’ve ever been traditional.

Hannibal hums, tucking an errant curl behind Will’s ear. “A small ceremony in the village, then.”

“Definitely unrelated to that trip we took to Florence last month,” Will says, quirking an eyebrow when it all clicks. 

After being fitted for custom made tuxedos, they had gone to visit the Uffizi. Standing before the Primavera once again had been a surreal experience.

“In part,” Hannibal admits, bumping their foreheads together before gently nudging Will aside.

Will follows him out of the kitchen and into the grand foyer.

Light spills over the marble floor, the stylized sun at its center seeming to move as the curtains cast thin shadows. The center table is gone, the room bared of all floor decorations except for a tiny stool near the foot of the staircase.

It’s the arrangement Hannibal makes whenever they host a party, and it piques Will’s interest. He hadn’t been informed. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Hannibal stops him from moving any further with a hand to his chest.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Will quirks an eyebrow. “Be very mindful that I’m wearing your definition of lingerie.”

Hannibal grins, but the tip of his head is gracious. “I’ve found it,” he says.

“Wasn’t aware you’d lost something.” The quip goes ignored.

He watches Hannibal fiddle with his iPad, placing it on the stool before the sound system comes alive. Hidden speakers murmur the first notes of a piano, and instantly, Will knows what he’s talking about it. By the time the strings join, he’s breathless.

“You found it,” he says around a small laugh.

“I did.” Hannibal adjusts his robe, his bare feet peeking out of soft pajama bottoms. He crosses the room in slow strides, a hand outstretched for Will to take. “Paris.”

Will has never been one for sentimentality. Things, much like people, came and went, hardly staying long enough to stir attachment. He’s loved, of course. Truly, falsely, passionately, fiercely. Never has he opened the doors to something as nonsensical as this. 

Romance has only ever been an inconvenience, something only enjoyed during his youth. Had anyone ever told him ten years ago that he’d end up here, wrapped so tightly around Hannibal, he would have shot whoever had the gall to suggest something so ridiculous. They’re two grown men, not teenagers. Real life didn’t grant the opportunity to hold hands while walking down the shoreline, or go bicycling in the Netherlands, or spend New Year’s in Beijing.

Will would never have believed that one day Hannibal Lecter would slip a ring across the table of a coffee shop in Paris, asking to marry him. Never thought possible that he would say yes, and that they’d dance to a live band playing in a tiny, dead end street.

The fact that they’ve been living in this bubble for four years leaves him reeling. He’s waited and waited for the shoe to drop but nothing ever happens. They dance, they hunt, they cook, and they eat. They’re just so _unbelievably normal,_ all things considered.

Will takes Hannibal’s hand, like he always does, when the man begins to sing through the speakers.

The song isn’t exactly remarkable compared to the pieces Hannibal favors, or the simpler music Will has in his laptop. There is, however, something to be said for the group’s collective voice that never fails to send shivers down Will’s spine.

As for the words, both he and Hannibal never really discuss them. They’re simple, but in an existence shrouded in covert meanings and complicated utterances, simplicity holds a sense of power. There is truth, and there is also vulnerability.

Hands clasped together, the other at mid backs, Hannibal guides them towards the center of the sun.

Will huffs out a laugh at how regal Hannibal looks, even with his hair fanned over his forehead and silk robe increasingly slipping open. They’re both smiling, disbelieving, and utterly, hopelessly, in love.

They sway from side to side, no grand gestures or elegant twirls for the time being. It’s just as amazing, just as beautiful as if they were donning their finest outfits and spinning across the glittering floors of a soirée.

When Hannibal does spin him, he sends them both into a sweeping series of steps across the foyer, as if the song were a waltz rather than a ballad. Will isn’t thrown off, perfectly capable of keeping up, meeting each step of the robust crescendo with grace and elegance born from practice and an excellent dance partner that doesn’t lead him astray.

They lull when the song does, Will switching the lead and bringing Hannibal close to him again, arms around his middle. “I love you,” he whispers, barely audible over the dying notes of the song.

Those three words never seize to surprise him. An agonizing understatement for all that he feels for the man pressed against him, but the sentiment behind them is accepted nonetheless.

Hannibal captures his lips in a chaste kiss, the tenderness with which he does so resonating in Will. “I adore you, my beautiful boy.”

Yet another understatement Will believes, a fact he’ll keep with him until his last breath. “Do you, Dr. Lecter, take me to be your husband? Wherever this road may lead, whichever way the stars may oppose us, however many bars threaten to separate us?”

The sharp intake of breath rustles Will’s hair, Hannibal’s hands clutching harder. They continue to dance despite the villa having fallen into silence. “I do,” he says, the click of his throat working around a difficult swallow audible to Will. “Do you, Will, take me to be your husband?”

No other words follow, and Will has to lean back to look up at him. “Hannibal?” The gloss over his eyes aren’t a trick of the light.

“My apologies,” Hannibal says, his mouth trying and failing to pull itself into a smile. “Books. I had penned entire diaries with words I have wanted to say to you, on this moment. I can’t, for the life of me, remember any of them.”

Will’s heart clenches, the entirety of his chest growing heavy. “You ridiculous creature,” he says with a laugh, taking Hannibal’s face between his hands and gently pressing their mouths together. “I do, Hannibal. I said it once, I’ll say it again. I do.” He kisses each high cheek, chasing away wet streaks.

Hannibal bumps their foreheads together, smiling tearily at him. “Live the rest of your days knowing that I will love you like no other, that love cannot begin to encompass the emotions you bring to life within me.”

“For the rest of our days, show me,” Will says, sealing their words with a long kiss. “I now pronounce us Dr. and Mr. Graham-Lecter.”

Hannibal’s laugh is just a gust of air, as bright as the sun that warms Will’s back. “The announcement goes before the kiss.”

Will hums, threading his arms around Hannibal’s neck and leaning into him, licking his way into his mouth. He can still taste traces of sugar. “That has now been rectified,” he says, pressing nose to nose. “Now, go upstairs and wait for me in bed. I’m going to bring us some wine to celebrate.”

Hannibal nips his bare shoulder, teeth a promise of what is soon to come once the alcohol is imbibed and the sugar sprinkled across Will’s chest to be cleaned up with a wicked tongue. “Don’t take too long, my dear.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Will pats his ass as he guides him towards the staircase, the air between them rife with good humor.

He watches until Hannibal’s back disappears into the second floor, then reaches for the iPad that’s been left there ignored. Will has every intention to return as quickly as possible, but first, he opens up an incognito tab and does a quick search on exclusive jewelers in Florence. Knowing Hannibal, the ring on his finger will soon be replaced by a proper wedding band, and Will wants to present him with one as well when the time comes.

Address memorized, Will darts into the kitchen and forsakes the decanter in favor of the wine bottle. 

Popping another pastry into his mouth, he grabs two glasses and heads for their room, eager to get back into bed and enjoy the rest of their lifelong honeymoon.


End file.
